Bandits Engaged (Battlegroup Z Book 4) Read online

  “Well, sounds like something to ponder… when you’re off duty.” His normal gruff tone returned. “Now, get back to work,” he said with a sheepish grin.

  “Yes, sir,” Justin replied and sprang from his seat. “Godspeed, sir.”

  “Godspeed to you, too, Spencer.”

  As Justin walked down the passageway toward the hangar deck and his cramped cubbyhole of an office, he pondered where his mind was. The idea of becoming a Christian, a Muslim, a Jew, or a Sikh or accepting any other religion seemed so foreign. Yet he was inexplicably drawn to the Bible that Father Elliott had given him. Perhaps returning to the front will make things easier to process. Something about combat seemed to do that.

  After six weeks of space dock time, Colonel Banu Tehrani was ready to get back into the void and fight the League of Sol. An operational pause was nice, but the constant drumbeat of headlines regarding the enemy’s capture of Eire gave her motivation to finish as fast as possible. Annoyed by a pattern of delays from the Lawrence drive and fusion reactor refits, she’d insisted on a tour of the work in progress. Major Benjamin Wright, her executive officer, and Major Carlyle Hodges, the Zvika Greengold’s chief engineer, led the walkthrough.

  “As you can see, ma’am, we’ve replaced the entire inner shell of the torus,” Hodges explained, gesturing to a control panel showing an interior view of the reactor chamber. The vessel was consuming power from the shipyard they were docked in rather than generating its own.

  Tehrani crossed her arms. “Major, I see a bunch of shiny toys and many status reports promising my ship will be ready to return to the fight. Yet our reactor isn’t producing plasma, and the Lawrence drive remains inoperable.”

  Hodges frowned. “The engineering team is going as quickly as possible.” Fire crept into his eyes. “These things cannot be rushed.” The man’s Cockney accent grew stronger the more upset he got.

  “How soon?”

  “Ma’am, if I may,” Wright interjected. “Our esteemed chief engineer is having some issues with personnel. We’re getting replacements, but it’s the same problem we had after the battle of Canaan. These kids CDFPER is sending us… they suck, ma’am.”

  “Is that your professional opinion, XO?” Tehrani snorted.

  “Well, I mean to say, they’re green—”

  “Of course they’re green,” she snapped. “There’s a war for survival on, and our ranks are filling with conscripts.”

  Wright bit his lip. “Ma’am, it’s more than the typical green privates. These kids are getting six weeks of basic training followed by another eight weeks of advanced MOS education.”

  “Eight weeks?” Tehrani asked, shocked. Typically, CDF enlistees received a ten-week basic training course followed by twenty to sixty weeks’ worth of military occupational-specialty education. “That’s not enough to know a wrench from a multi-tool.”

  “And you see my problem, ma’am. They’re eager, but our newly minted privates aren’t adequately trained. My understanding is it's like this across the fleet.” Hodges pursed his lips.

  “We must rise to the occasion,” Tehrani replied. “How about chief petty officers and senior chiefs?”

  “Full complement, ma’am.”

  Tehrani glanced at Wright. “Set up follow-on training with the help of our best NCOs. Make it well known that whoever distinguishes themselves will be at the top of my promotion list.”

  “Good idea, Colonel,” Hodges replied begrudgingly.

  “Now, I want to be underway in a week.” Tehrani set her jaw. “Are we clear, Major?”

  “Crystal, ma’am,” Wright said before the engineer could speak. “We’ll be ready.”

  Hodges shot him a dirty look and rocked on the balls of his feet. “Yes, sir, ma’am.” It didn’t take a rocket scientist to read his displeasure.

  “Good. XO, with me, please. Carry on, Major.” She turned on her heel and strode away.

  It took a few minutes to exit the vast reactor housing area with Wright following close behind. As the hatch—guarded by several masters-at-arms—closed behind them, she turned toward him.

  “I’ll get to the point. Is Hodges slow boating the repairs?”

  “Uh, I don’t think so, ma’am.” Wright furrowed his brow. “Whatever my differences with him, I’ve never detected cowardice.”

  “Would it really be cowardice to want a few weeks when we’re not killing people daily?” Tehrani twisted her neck and stretched it then closed her eyes for a moment. “I’m caught between thanking Allah for a break from writing condolence letters and wanting to get back out there and kill every Leaguer that’s invaded our homes.”

  Wright put his hand on her shoulder. “For what it's worth, Skipper, a break is doing us good. We’ll all be in a better mindset to get back into the fight.”

  They walked side by side down the passageway toward a gravlift. Enlisted ratings squeezed to the sides, coming to attention briefly.

  “General Yukimura sent me a notification yesterday. It appears the Zvika Greengold is being awarded a Presidential Unit Citation.”

  “God knows our crew deserves it,” Wright replied. “Along with half a dozen Medals of Honor.”

  Tehrani turned her head. “I put Whatley and Spencer both in for a Distinguished Flying Cross with the V device along with many posthumous awards.”

  The mention of their casualties dampened the mood.

  Wright frowned. “Skipper, we’re gonna have losses. No matter how good your leadership, Whatley’s flying, and my comedy routines.”

  She laughed. “Don’t worry, Benjamin. I’ll be fine. When we get back into the void and we’re sending Leaguers on to meet their judgment, all will be right again.” Until it's not, and I have to count the costs. The gravlift loomed ahead of them. “Now, what do you say we go review our personnel transfer list? I have some questions about how you allocated some of the NCOs and junior officers.”

  “Sounds like a plan to me.”

  As Tehrani hit the button to call the lift, she sucked in a breath. It wouldn’t do for Wright to know how much she longed for a break and how the longing made her feel like a coward. No. Once we’re back in the fight, everything will be fine.

  Terran Coalition Government Complex

  Lawrence City—Canaan

  8 August 2434

  President Jason Nolan stared out the window behind his desk in the Oval Office, gazing at the sweeping skyline of Lawrence City with its enormous skyscrapers and office buildings. Though the war had raged for almost a year, the bright lights hadn’t faded. Life had continued, leading to questions about whether the cost of the war was being shouldered equally. The draft will ensure it does.

  The door swung open, and two men he knew well walked in—General Antonio Saurez and Abdul Karimi.

  Saurez was the overall commanding officer for the CDF’s space-going fleet, while Karimi had been Nolan’s chief of staff and most trusted confidant for decades.

  Karimi closed the door behind them, leaving the three men alone—except the protective service officer stationed in the room at all times. “You wanted to see us, sir?”

  Nolan gestured to the small couches in front of his desk. “Have a seat, gentlemen.” He sat on the sofa across from them, staring intently at Saurez. “General, I asked you here privately because I don’t want to undermine confidence in your leadership.”

  “Sir?” Saurez asked. Almost imperceptibly, he gritted his teeth for a second. “I don’t understand. Are you displeased with something?”

  “I’m as mad as hell that the League captured one of our core worlds, General.” Nolan furrowed his brow. “Does that sum it up for you?”

  “We all are, sir.”

  “Then why don’t I have a plan on my desk to retake it?” Nolan crossed his arms. “Every time I want to attack, the Joint Chiefs of Staff have an excuse—”

  “With respect, sir,” Saurez interjected, “there is no lack of desire to defeat the enemy. May I remind you we’re up against an opponent wi
th a vastly numerically superior force?”

  Saurez was obviously struggling to keep his emotions in check, but his frustration was past the point Nolan would let it go.

  “Oh, I’m reminded of that fact every day, General. We also say—every day—the CDF is technologically superior, and we’re winning. Which is it?”

  Saurez turned his head away. “Both.” He sucked in a breath and made eye contact with Nolan. “Sir, if we get favorable odds, we wipe the floor with the Leaguers, but if they catch us out of position by so much as a millimeter… well, disaster strikes. Like Eire. I need you to understand that if we send a fleet to retake it, we’ll win, but the cost could be so great as to lose the war for us in one fell swoop.”

  “Even with the successful strike on Sol, morale is close to collapse. The signs abound in opinion polling by every major news outlet.” Nolan put his hands out, palms up. “What would you have me do? Our citizens need to see we’re winning.”

  “I have a different solution, sir.” Saurez set his jaw. “Why don’t you tell them the truth—we’re losing the war. And it’s worth it to keep fighting because death is preferable to being marched to reeducation camps and having everything our society stands for destroyed. I used to think we should keep morale up at all costs. Now, I’m convinced the strategy was wrong.”

  The general’s words reverberated throughout the room and into Nolan’s soul. “I haven’t given up on victory yet.”

  Saurez pressed his lips together. “I’m not saying you or anyone else should accept defeat. I’m saying a dose of realism coupled with a call to fight the good fight, no matter whether we win or lose, might rally the people.”

  “Are you suggesting I’m too rosy in my predictions to the populace?” Nolan frowned and briefly considered the general’s suggestion. Have I been too focused on keeping spirits up and somehow led us all down the wrong path?

  “Sir, my job isn’t to create policy. It’s to execute policy. More specifically, your policies and directives. But you asked, so yes—by celebrating our wins with outsized focus and not fully acknowledging defeat, it’s my belief the population at large is confused by mixed messages.”

  Nolan took the stinging rebuke in stride. “Okay, General Saurez. Message received. I’ll review what the government and I have said regarding the war so far and consider your suggestion. This doesn’t change the demand of your commander-in-chief to liberate Eire.” He crossed his arms. “Where are we in planning?”

  “At least six months away, sir.” Saurez focused his piercing gaze on Nolan. “Right now, we’re pinpointing the location on all significant League military encampments and military assets. The Coalition Intelligence Service is helping resistance cells gather across the planet. I might add they didn’t need much encouragement. From there, we will create an order of battle and task carrier battlegroups along with space action groups and enough Marines to win. League activity across the rest of our space must be at low-enough levels to allow us numerical superiority.”

  “If our ships are so much better—”

  “Lancaster’s Law, Mr. President. It holds, and we’ve proven it repeatedly: the more of an edge the attacker holds, the lower the casualties. We cannot absorb losses of our fleet carriers and battleships, sir.” Saurez gritted his teeth. “If you order me to proceed before we’re ready, I’ll be forced to resign.”

  Nolan blinked. Saurez, while direct, had never made a threat like that before. “That won’t be necessary, General.”

  Tension descended over the room like a suffocating fog. Karimi leaned forward. “Sir, I think what the general is trying to relay is we’re in a tight spot right now. Caution is advised.”

  Hearing his chief of staff support the military’s position made Nolan quickly check his conscience. I can’t afford to drive away our best leaders. He held up his hand. “I hear both of you. Okay, no rash decisions. It doesn’t change my desire to retake Eire and liberate our citizens as fast as humanly possible.”

  “I assure you, Mr. President, it’s my highest goal as well,” Saurez replied.

  “When can I see your preliminary invasion plan?”

  “Two weeks, sir.” Saurez pursed his lips. “Is that acceptable?”

  “Yes.” Nolan nodded. “I’ve taken up enough of your time for today.”

  Saurez stood. “Always glad to be of assistance, sir.” As he turned on his heel and exited through one of three doors to the office, the atmosphere seemed to get warmer.

  “You were a bit harsh,” Karimi said when they were alone. “He’s just doing his job. You realize?”

  “Perhaps.” Nolan leaned his head back. “Abdul, is Saurez right? Am I overly optimistic?”

  Karimi chuckled and stretched his neck. “I don’t think so, but perhaps we could message the situation a bit closer to reality—dire.” He cleared his throat. “There’s something we should discuss.”

  “The way you said that tells me I’m not going to like it.”

  “Well, there’s considerable debate on what capital ships we should be building. Battleships or carriers. Each overarching class has its proponents and unique advantages.”

  “And what aren’t I going to like about this?”

  “Support is consolidating around shifting the fleet to be carrier centric. Our losses are such that the Joint Chiefs believe it would be far easier to replace pilots and small craft than entire ships. Especially large ones, like battleships.”

  “What’s the average loss rate for fighter pilots?” The blood drained from Nolan’s face.

  “For what period, sir?”

  “One deployment. Three months.”

  “Thirty to fifty percent, sir.”

  “So we sacrifice a few to save the many?”

  Karimi averted his gaze and stared out the window. “Sometimes that’s war, sir.”

  “Not a decision I’m making today. Let me get back to work, Abdul. I need to review some briefs before we meet with the Matrinid ambassador in twenty minutes.”

  “Of course, sir.” Karimi stood and exited quickly.

  Nolan didn’t budge from the sofa, lost in thought over the last piece of information given to him. The previous year had brought compromises of his ideals in ways he would never have considered. This was one more. He believed all life was sacred and that he had a duty to protect everyone in the Terran Coalition. Here I sit, seriously contemplating offering up thousands of young men and women in the hope we won’t lose tens of thousands more. In times like these, Nolan felt most like a hypocritical politician.

  2

  CSV Zvika Greengold

  High Loop Parking Orbit—Canaan

  12 August 2434

  A week had passed since Tehrani laid down the law to Major Hodges and his engineering teams. While sometimes it seemed he was dragging his feet, the reactor and most of their refit items were complete. The few outstanding issues left could be addressed as they flew back to the front—in wartime, Tehrani felt they didn’t have the luxury of waiting until every I was dotted and T crossed.

  She’d spent her morning approving final transfer requests and fighting with CDFPER to ensure they had replacement enlisted personnel and officers. Never a fun task, it got harder after every engagement.

  Her tablet buzzed. “Colonel, I’ve got a flash communication request from General Yukimura for you,” First Lieutenant Gopinath Singh said through it. He was the Zvika Greengold’s communications officer.

  “Put him through immediately, Lieutenant,” Tehrani replied.

  Major General Shingo Yukimura commanded the overall carrier division the Greengold was attached to. He was not a man one kept waiting.

  An image of Yukimura’s face appeared on her tablet. His brow was furrowed and his lips flat. “Good morning, Colonel.”

  “Good morning, sir.” Tehrani kept her expression neutral.

  “I received your engineering status report this morning. Do I understand correctly that your command is fully ready for combat?”

  Dir
ect and to the point. I wonder what’s wrong now. “Yes, sir. I would expect we could be underway no later than oh eight hundred tomorrow morning.”

  Yukimura pursed his lips. “Good. I’m re-forming your battle group, with the CSV Marcus Luttrell as primary escort. Two of the Saurian frigates we recently purchased are in the process of final checkout cruises and will join you en route along with a stealth raider. I believe you're familiar with Colonel Fielding and the CSV Astute?”

  The mention of the Templar-class vessel made Tehrani smile. She’d been continually impressed by Fielding and his crew in their last deployment. “I am, sir. Happy to rate one of our golden nebula friends.”

  For the first time in the conversation, Yukimura’s face showed a trace of a grin. “Force multipliers, Colonel.” It quickly disappeared. “I’m sending you to section nine alpha of the border zone.”

  Tehrani quickly recalled the particular location. It was near the Trifid nebula and was neutral space—primarily human-settled planets from colony ships launched after the initial Exodus. She nodded.

  “You’re probably wondering why, since the League isn’t attacking us from that area.”

  “Yes, sir. The Greengold would rather be where the action is.”

  Yukimura chuckled. “Don’t worry, Tehrani. You’re getting some action, and so will your entire battlegroup. There have been an increasing number of pirate attacks down there. Neutral and allied shipping is taking a beating, and we don’t have enough border patrol vessels to monitor the sector. Most of them have been impressed into point-defense duty in our depleted carrier battlegroups.”

  “Pirates?” Tehrani’s jaw dropped. “They’ve only been a problem farther down the arm toward the Jewel Box.”

  “They’re parasites who feed on us while our attention is directed elsewhere thanks to the League of Sol.” Yukimura tilted his head to one side while grimacing. “I can respect an enemy combatant, but striking civilians in the dead of space… it’s dishonorable and makes me wish I were yet again a line officer so that I could dispatch them with haste.”